


a sweet revelation

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Banter, Communication, Complicated Relationships, Confessions, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Heart-to-Heart, Honesty, Humor, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor Tim Stoker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Non-Explicit Sex, Oral Sex, POV Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Season/Series 02, Trans Male Character, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "Tim Stoker has always had a problem with running his mouth.Usually, it’s not too much of an issue. He’s charming and friendly and extroverted, and it’s not too difficult to turn a situation around once he’s put his foot in his mouth. It peeks through in his everyday interactions, though: how readily he uses pet names with his friends, how freely he throws around swear words, how eagerly he flirts with anyone he’s interested in without an ounce of self-consciousness, and… the other thing. That other stupid, awful thing that he always says at the wrong time."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: you've been like a light [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 14
Kudos: 170





	a sweet revelation

**Author's Note:**

> the brief and vague sex is very much not the focus of this fic, but still i'm putting a note in here to say that i use the words cock and dick a few times to refer to tim's body.

_it's like everything you say is a sweet revelation  
all i wanna do is get into your head  
yeah we could stay alone, you and me and this temptation  
sipping on your lips, hanging on by a thread  
late night watching television  
but how'd we get in this position?  
way too soon, i know this isn't love  
but i need to tell you something_

// carly rae jepsen, 'i really like you'

* * *

Tim Stoker has always had a problem with running his mouth. In primary school he was reprimanded constantly for saying things he shouldn’t – telling the younger children the truth about Father Christmas (they asked), telling a teacher his breath smelled like a sewer (it did), telling his friends they were being prats (they were). As this pattern continued, the consequences became less of the “slap on the wrist from the headmaster” variety and more of the “actual social and professional repercussions for your behavior” variety, and he learned some things about what was okay to say and when, but he still has a tendency to blurt things out without thinking, or to be a bit too blunt.

Usually, it’s not too much of an issue. He’s charming and friendly and extroverted, and it’s not too difficult to turn a situation around once he’s put his foot in his mouth. It peeks through in his everyday interactions, though: how readily he uses pet names with his friends, how freely he throws around swear words, how eagerly he flirts with anyone he’s interested in without an ounce of self-consciousness, and… the other thing. That other stupid, awful thing that he always says at the wrong time.

Like right now, for instance. Tim’s got his fingers tangled up in Martin’s dark curls, his back arched off the wall, his mouth hanging open in a silent expression of bliss as Martin takes him to absolute pieces with his tongue. It’s clear Martin’s enjoying it, making filthy wet noises as he licks and sucks and takes Tim’s cock between those full lips. He looks up at Tim’s face through the thick veil of his lashes, and Tim’s done for, a complete goner.

“Fuck, I love you,” he says, breathless and half-whining, pushing against Martin’s mouth because he’s _so fucking close._

Martin makes a choked sound, like a sip of water gone down the wrong pipe, pulls back much too far and looks up at Tim. He doesn't say anything, just coughs softly and stares, eyes wide and bewildered, brow furrowed, slick and swollen lips twisted into a deep frown.

"Ah, shit," Tim mutters, still recovering from the abrupt loss of stimulation, as soon as he realizes what he's said. His chest tightens, panic overtaking him, as he stumbles over himself to try and right the mess, to backpedal before Martin can get upset. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –,"

"No, it's fine," Martin interrupts to assure him, "just surprised me, is all."

"Right. Sorry." Tim cards his fingers through Martin's hair, gentle and soothing, and smiles when Martin leans into the touch slightly. His heart is still beating out of his chest, fear and arousal increasing adrenaline in his bloodstream to an unhealthy degree. "I meant – you know, I love you platonically. You're a really good friend, Marto, thank you for sucking my dick."

Groaning, Martin turns his face away from him. "Cool, yeah, please don't tell me you love me while we're having sex? That's… weird."

Despite the fact that Tim knows what Martin means, that he understands the situation and agrees with his assessment, it still feels like a pang in his gut, like a rejection. It’s such a reasonable request, Martin shouldn’t even have to say it, but somehow Tim still takes it on an emotional level as if he’s been asked to cut off a piece of himself. A piece that he shouldn’t have in the first place, a piece that he stole.

(Of course, it doesn’t help that he still hasn’t told Martin about him and Jon, that he’s managed to keep this _one_ thing to himself and every time he looks at Martin’s beautiful face he feels so painfully guilty that he could die. He doesn’t know what’s worse: that he hooked up with Jon in the first place, or that he’s kept it a secret for all these weeks. 

It’s not like they’re exclusive, and it’s not even that he thinks Martin would mind, it’s just – Martin has it so bad for Jon, and Tim feels like shit for getting there first, and he feels even worse for how much he doesn’t regret it. Martin deserves better. But _God,_ does Tim love him.) 

In the face of his reflexive hurt, he has to be a bit difficult to cover for it, or he wouldn't be himself. "But I _do_ love you," he points out with a rakish grin.

Unamused, Martin fixes him with a deadly glare. "Yes, I _know_ that," he says pointedly, "but it means something different when you're in bed with someone."

"We're not in bed," Tim retorts. 

"If you don't shut up, I _will_ kick you out," Martin snaps at him.

"Fine, alright, alright," Tim concedes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, softening his smile to something less mischievous. He takes a deep breath to calm himself before continuing, more earnest than before. "You're right, I'm sorry. It just slipped out, I'll try not to do it again."

"Thanks," Martin says, and then shuffles forward on his knees to resume his work. But in the split second before Martin’s tongue is on him again, Tim manages to mumble something that makes him pull back slightly. “What was that?”

Tim bites his lip a bit sheepishly, averts his eyes. “I’m… I mean, it _is_ weird, but. Dunno, it feels wrong that you didn’t say it, too. Just once, and then I’ll drop it.”

Martin rolls his eyes, gives him an exasperated sigh, but his lips quirk up at the corners. “Sure, Tim. I love you too, as a friend, and now I would rather like to make you come, as a friend, if you’ve no more objections.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Tim nods his head. He puts his hands back in Martin’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp with blunt fingertips, and pulls him forward with the gentlest of pressure, guiding his mouth back to Tim’s cock. Martin goes willingly with the motion, sucks Tim into his mouth enthusiastically, his eyes fluttering closed at the taste of him.

Tim comes embarrassingly quickly after that, moaning and grinding against Martin's tongue, and then again, and again. Thankfully he's too worked up to really form words, because he's not in his right mind enough to restrain himself if another awkward, unbidden profession of feelings decided to come out. He makes sure to thoroughly repay the favor when Martin is done going down on him, and that provides distraction enough that they drop the subject for the time being.

Only, it keeps happening. Tim doesn’t mean to say it, but it keeps slipping out, and it’s humiliating, and it’s uncomfortable, and it’s entirely unfair to Martin, who has to deal with it every time. And the worst part is that _most_ of the time, he _is_ able to keep it from escaping, which just means that it actually goes through his mind even _more_ often than it comes out of his mouth. But unfortunately, it does also come out of his mouth. 

To his credit, he is quite good at covering it up when it slips out, turning an _I love you_ into literally anything else on the fly. Martin definitely notices, definitely sees what he’s doing, but as long as Tim makes an effort to demonstrate that he knows what he’s said and he knows he shouldn’t say it, Martin tends to let it slide.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tim mumbles soothingly, “I said _quite a few.”_

“Quite a few what?” Martin asks, the halfhearted skepticism in his eyes overwhelmingly outweighed by his desire to maintain the momentum they’ve got going, to continue undressing Tim like he’s unwrapping a chocolate.

Tim has a hand firm and solid on Martin’s bicep, gives it a little reassuring squeeze. “Quite a few things I’d like to do to you tonight,” he answers, smooth and confident, “if you’re amenable.”

Martin, as it turns out, is more than amenable.

Another time, it’s “I love you…” followed closely by “…r hair like this, are you using a new conditioner? It smells amazing, and it’s so soft…” and Tim manages to successfully divert Martin’s attention by gushing about his hair for a few minutes. 

He’s not lying, though. It really is very soft.

Then there’s the time after a night of truly mind-numbing sex, when Tim rolls over early in the morning, hazy and half-asleep, and mumbles "Love you" against Martin’s chest. He doesn’t remember that one later when Martin brings it up over lunch, but he still spins a convincing tale to excuse it.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Martin with a charming little chuckle. “I was dreaming about going to visit my parents.”

“Right. Okay, then,” Martin says slowly, wrinkling his brow, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. 

Tim looks at him and just knows that Martin doesn’t believe it, but feels guilty for questioning it. He can see the wheels turning in Martin’s head as he tells himself that it makes sense, that it’s a perfectly rational explanation, and that if it _is_ the truth then that makes him a bad friend for not trusting Tim.

It’s pretty gratifying for Tim to be able to read Martin’s mind like this. Makes him feel clever, but then he feels bad for Martin, working himself up over nothing, so he dedicates the rest of the afternoon to making sure Martin stops thinking about it altogether.

Once, he says it at work, on his way out of the room at the end of the day, and then he has to explain it not just to Martin, but to Sasha and Jon as well. It’s harder to wave it off when he very clearly said “Night, Marto, I love you,” where everyone could hear it.

He pulls to a stop instantly, like he’s walked into a glass door, a strangled sound of horror clawing its way up from his chest. “All of you,” he says, too loud, too abrupt, like he’s reading from a script, only he’s normally a much better actor than this. “Goodnight Marto, all of you, as in Martin and Sasha and Jon. Goodnight to everybody. See you later.”

He makes a quick exit, and he gets a text from Martin about a minute later which only contains a series of very judgmental emojis. When he asks later, Martin tells him that Jon and Sasha didn’t say anything after he was gone. Tim’s not sure he believes it, but he appreciates Martin’s attempt to make him feel less like he’s exposed himself in front of his coworkers.

Tim only likes exposing himself to his coworkers in very specific, controlled circumstances. And Martin, God bless him, is a wonder at ignoring Tim’s big mouth in favor of getting to those circumstances.

It doesn’t really become an _issue_ until a few weeks later. They’re at Tim’s flat and he’s lying back against the arm of his sofa in a way that should probably be uncomfortable, but at the moment he doesn’t mind one bit. Martin is leaning over him, carefully distributing his weight to avoid digging an elbow into Tim’s stomach or something similarly clumsy – it’s not a huge space, and neither of them are exactly small people, and Martin’s got surprisingly sharp elbows. So he’s got his hands planted on either side of Tim’s torso, one knee wedged between Tim’s legs, and he’s just taking his time kissing Tim absolutely silly. 

They’ve gotten really good at this in the time since they started sleeping together – it’s an easy ebb and flow, an unhurried connection that sometimes does and sometimes doesn’t serve as the preamble to something else. Martin leans into the kiss with his whole body as he licks past Tim’s lips with slow, languid strokes of his tongue, swallowing up the soft little whines and hums of pleasure bubbling up from Tim’s throat.

The problem starts when Martin pulls away from him, heavy-lidded eyes taking in the sight of Tim all flushed and desperate before he dips down to mouth at Tim’s neck. Tim probably could keep his mouth shut if he wanted to, if he really tried, but then that would probably signal to Martin that something’s wrong, and Tim definitely doesn’t want him to think something’s wrong, not when everything’s so, so right. All he can do is try to act natural, try to say what he would normally say while Martin’s sucking deep bruises into his throat.

He starts off strong with a broken moan, a hand cradling the back of Martin’s head. “God, babe, you’re so good to me,” he mumbles half-incoherently, squirming under Martin’s ministrations. That’s normal, he thinks with a silent sigh of relief, and then it’s all downhill from there. “You’re so good with your tongue, I love the way you use your mouth, I love you – love you so much, _shit_ –,” he cuts off with a strangled cry as Martin bites down hard on the delicate skin of his neck.

“We talked about this, Tim,” Martin says evenly, pulling back to look at his face, his hard glare tinged with a hint of concern and confusion. “Do we need to… actually _talk_ about it?”

Tim freezes, swallows hard, feels a lump of terror and panic in his throat as Martin looks at him, all curious and studious. “No, no,” he rushes to say, shaking his head jerkily. “No, I’m sorry, Martin, really. I didn’t mean to say that, you know I didn’t. I’m sorry, I’m trying.”

Martin narrows his eyes, purses his lips for a long moment in thought, then softens considerably and raises a hand to brush his knuckles over Tim’s cheek. “I’m not angry with you,” he murmurs with a small smile. “Just – if this is something that’s – you know, a _thing?_ Then I’d like to know. We can… talk about it, if you want, work it out, or we can just move on and forget about it, but – if it’s an issue, then maybe we should explore it?”

“It’s not an issue,” Tim promises immediately. His hand shoots up to grab Martin’s wrist as he tries to pull away, to keep him close. “It’s not, there’s no issue. You know me, I can’t keep my mouth shut, but I don’t mean anything by it, really.”

“Does this happen with all your hookups?” Martin asks skeptically.

“Well, no,” Tim admits, “but not all my hookups are my best friends. I don’t tell them I love them because I don’t. Love them.”

Frowning, Martin blinks at him a few times before answering, “Right. Well, it’s – I mean, I get it, but – I don’t – I don’t like it. I’m sorry, I know it’s not on purpose, but it’s – it’s – I don’t know. It worries me?”

Tim turns Martin’s hand in his own to tangle their fingers together, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, really,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

It’s been a long, long time since Tim has felt this kind of anxiety like ice in his veins, the all-consuming fear of being left alone. He could have sworn he had gotten over it sometime in uni, learned to cover it up with charm and wit and flirting, but now it’s reared its ugly head and he feels like he can’t breathe for worry that Martin will decide to be done with him.

Martin smiles, a nearly imperceptible twitch of his lips, and Tim’s chest relaxes by degrees as he lifts his free hand to stroke through Tim’s hair, tender and soothing. “It’s okay,” Martin says softly. “It’s okay, Tim, take a deep breath. Are you alright?”

“You’re asking me?” Tim laughs, incredulous, his eyebrows shooting up. Martin doesn’t respond but for an expectant look, a quiet, inexorable reminder that he’s waiting for an answer. “Yeah,” Tim says eventually in a small, broken voice. “I’m fine, besides feeling awful for screwing everything up.”

A low hum vibrates through Martin’s chest and he cocks his head to the side. “Care to tell me what, exactly, you think you’ve screwed up?” 

As he speaks, he continues carding his fingers through Tim’s hair, tugging gently every few strokes. It’s not fair how easily Martin can put a spell on him, like Tim is a kitten and Martin is grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, the light pull of his fingers in Tim’s hair and the firm sensitivity of his voice activating some sort of reflexive calm in Tim’s brain.

He hadn't expected it, the first few times Martin pulled this out. It's such a dissonant image from the stammering, nervous, people-pleasing Martin that he's always known and loved, but not at all in a bad way. Tim needs this, sometimes. He always has so much bluster or swagger or confidence – whatever it's called, it's about 50% fake, and sometimes he just gets tired of being the guy who always has a smile and a comeback and a line and a wink. Sometimes he needs to be the guy who goes boneless under Martin's hands and answers Martin's questions honestly and without pretense.

"This," he mumbles at length, looking down to avoiding the painful kindness in Martin’s gaze. “Us. I keep saying stupid shit and ruining it.”

“I don’t think anything’s ruined,” Martin assures him. “If you want to talk about this, we can. I just want you to be comfortable and happy with what we’re doing here, and if you’re not getting what you need from this, then we can… reassess.”

“We don’t need to reassess,” Tim says hastily, panic choking him all over again. “No, it’s good, everything’s perfect, I like this. I like what we’ve got going, please don’t let me fuck it up.”

"You're not – Tim," Martin says sternly, waits for Tim to look up at him before continuing, "you're not fucking it up. You're fine. I'm not saying I want to – to end this, or anything like that. I like things like this, too. I'm just saying – if there's something – something we're ignoring that we should be addressing, then I'd prefer to address it, for the avoidance of future misunderstandings."

"You're starting to talk like Jon," Tim says with a small laugh, though most of him is still seized with nerves. Which isn’t really helped by the fact that he’s remembering the quiet care with which Jon let him down after they’d had sex. The stilted, stumbling words and the painful dedication to sensitivity, to not hurting Tim’s feelings. 

Of course, talking about Jon and thinking about Jon inevitably forces Tim to worry about lying to Martin – not that he’s actually told Martin a lie with regards to what happened with Jon, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s dishonest to keep it from him. He’ll have to tell him eventually – he _wants_ to tell him – but he just laughs it off as a sardonic remark.

Martin laughs with him, squeezing his hand affectionately. "Yeah, well, I spent a lot of time with him when I was staying in the archives. And he's – you know, practical. Seems like he'd know what to do with something like this."

Tim stares at him for a moment before laughing again, this time a short, incredulous bark. "You think _Jon_ would know what to do in this situation?"

After pausing to think on it, mulling it over with a finger on his chin like he’s solving a puzzle in his head, Martin exhales in defeat. "Okay, no," he concedes, "but we can still approach this with a similar attitude. Just… more open, I think.”

“Alright. Alright.” Tim swallows nervously, bites his lip. Tries not to think about how he looks doing it, how Martin perceives him in this moment. “How do we do that, then?”

“First, I want to be sure that we’re on the same page here,” Martin says, his voice soft and steady, calming the anxious butterflies in Tim’s stomach just a touch. “That we’re both going to be completely honest, and that there’s no judgment and no hard feelings. Okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Tim nods.

“Okay. Good.” Martin rolls his shoulders back and looks at Tim for a second before blurting out, “Do you have feelings for me?”

The question isn’t a surprise, considering the conversation they’ve been having and everything, but it still knocks the wind out of Tim, leaves him choking on air and having to catch his bearings before he can even think of responding. Then he does think about it, and that’s even worse, having to consider his feelings while Martin is sitting right there, looking so understanding and patient and expectant. Tim knows that there’s no wrong answer here, that anything he feels is alright, as long as he trusts Martin with the truth, which he does. That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

He clears his throat a few times, willing the lump there to go away, wanting his voice to come out clearly when he decides what to say. It doesn’t work. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, the words rough around the edges. “I care about you.”

Martin nods like he expected this. “I care about you, too,” he says. “I just want to be sure we’re not heading towards crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed, because… I don’t think I could stand to lose you.”

“I feel the same way,” Tim assures him hastily. “And it’s possible that I have feelings for you, but I _really_ don’t know, and even if I do have feelings for you, nothing – nothing is stronger than how much I need you in my life. You're my best friend, and I'd drop everything else for that alone.”

“Good,” says Martin, half under his breath, looking at the ceiling like he’s searching for strength, his cheeks flushed dark and his lips parted. He’s quiet for a long time before he finally mumbles, “You can ask me, you know. If you want.”

“Ask you – ask you if you have feelings for me?” Tim barely manages to restrain himself from laughing at the prospect, only because he’s sure Martin would take it the wrong way, would think Tim was making fun of him rather than balking at the notion that he could possibly compete with… “I don’t need to ask. I know you’re into Jon, you don’t have to pretend you like me to protect my feelings or anything.”

“I could have sworn that we both promised total honesty,” Martin replies, certain and unyielding. “And for the record, just in case you’d forgotten, I also know that _you’re_ into Jon.”

Tim flinches at the reminder. “Yeah, but… not like you are. You’re in deep with him.”

Martin frowns, his eyes hardening somewhat, like he’s insulted, like he’s hurt, and it makes Tim’s chest constrict quite unpleasantly. “So, what?” Martin asks, bordering on accusatory, his voice going all high and indignant. “You think I’m just – what, having my fun with you as a, a fucking consolation prize? Just biding my time, waiting for him to give me the time of day so I can leave you in the dust?”

The words make Tim want to cry, but only because Martin is absolutely right. That’s exactly what Tim thinks, and even now, he can’t think of a single reason why it should be any different. “I mean… yeah?” he answers in a small, uncertain tone. “Kind of?”

His expression softening, Martin leans in close and kisses him, once, firm and chaste and square on the lips. “I would never do that to you,” he promises fervently, taking Tim’s chin in his hand to preempt his desire to look away. “Never. Do you understand that?”

Apparently absolutely dead set on ruining this for himself, Tim takes a deep, shaky breath and looks Martin in the eyes. “What if I… what if I did something awful?”

Martin furrows his brow. “You’re my friend, Tim. There’s very little that you could do to change that.” He laughs quietly, like he’s thinking about the ridiculous prospect of Tim doing anything that bad, but stops abruptly when he realizes Tim isn’t laughing with him.

“I had sex with him,” Tim confesses, the words escaping him in a quick, cathartic rush, like expunging an infection. He doesn’t give Martin the chance to ask questions, just barrels forward, determined to dig himself a deep, deep grave with a shovel made of honesty. “Jon. Once, only once, because we were both in quarantine and it was scary and he really needed it, and I know we said we’re okay with not being exclusive, but it was _him,_ and then I didn’t tell you. I should have told you. I had sex with him in the archives, I used my mouth and he used his hand and we kissed and then he told me we couldn’t do it again, he’s my boss and we’re friends and it’s so complicated and risky, plus he didn’t want to hurt you, he was thinking of you and I wasn’t and I should’ve and I’m so, so sorry, Martin.”

“Oh my God,” Martin says breathlessly, nearly inaudible even in the ringing silence after Tim’s done babbling. It takes a moment for Tim to register that Martin doesn’t seem angry, or even sad, but almost – amused? And then it takes another moment before Martin continues, “I kissed him. Or he kissed me? A while ago, back when – you remember when I paid for his dinner? We kissed. That was why I didn’t want to talk about it, and that was why he was so weird about paying me back.”

Tim blinks several times at that, unsure what to do with it. There's an overwhelming sense of relief as he situates the timeline in his head and realizes that Martin, in fact, got to Jon first; then there's more shame and shock and guilt and affection and confusion, all working together to make it quite impossible for him to formulate a coherent response. Eventually, after several deep breaths, he manages, “So you’re not mad?”

“To be honest, I’m just a little miffed that he deigned to give you an _explanation_ after the fact,” Martin replies, mostly teasing. “I got a stupid apology note and he couldn’t say a sentence to my face for a week.”

“An apology note?” Tim asks, incredulous. “What for?”

“You know, because kissing me was _highly inappropriate,”_ says Martin, putting on his goofy impression of the archivist’s tone of voice. “It was an _egregious mistake,_ apparently, because he missed the part where I kissed him back, and the part where I've had a big, stupid, obvious crush on him since the day we met.”

Tim smiles, feeling more comfortable and less guilty by the second as it becomes more and more clear that Martin doesn’t hate him, that he’s willing to laugh this off and move on. “He can be a bit daft sometimes.”

Martin nods his head and purses his lips in a manner that acutely reminds Tim of how adorable he is. Tim doesn’t try to resist the urge to pull Martin toward him and into another kiss, and Martin doesn't try to resist leaning into it with every part of him, which distracts them both for a good few minutes. 

When they’re both out of breath and worked up, right on the precipice of taking to the bedroom, Tim briefly gains the presence of mind to ask, “Are we good? Is this okay?” Martin narrows his eyes like he has no clue what Tim is talking about, so he elaborates: “We never really reached a… resolution? On our earlier conversation. I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay with this. With things staying the way they are, even though it’s all – messy.”

A soft hum of acknowledgement escapes Martin and he gives a one-shouldered shrug, cocking his head to the side, his curls bouncing with the motion. “Life’s messy,” he says simply. “Can we just agree to keep each other apprised of things that might affect our relationship?”

“That sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” murmurs Tim, and then he offers a hand to Martin, his little finger extended. “I hereby swear, on this very pinky, that I will let you know if I fall in love with you, or sleep with Jon again, or anything in between.”

“Thanks,” says Martin, rolling his eyes, but he takes the promise, hooks his own finger around Tim’s. “I promise not to keep things from you, and to always have an open mind if you want to talk to me about anything at all.”

“That’s beautiful, Marto. It’s like our platonic sex vows.” Tim pauses for a short moment and then adds with a teasing smile, "I love you."

“Oh God, don’t say that,” Martin groans wretchedly.

Tim lifts a hand to his face to dramatically wipe away a nonexistent tear. “S’my favorite part of every wedding ceremony, that is,” he says, voice wobbling with false emotion. “When they promise to always love each other but not say it, because that's weird. Pure poetry.”

Martin smacks him on the shoulder, but he’s laughing in spite of himself. Rather than dignify Tim's silliness by playing along, Martin grabs a hold of his wrist and starts to drag him toward the bedroom, and Tim goes along willingly, enthusiastically. Martin guides him down onto the bed with a firm but kind hand, mutters something about _consummation._ Tim doesn’t exactly hear the whole comment, but he leans into Martin’s hands on his body and lets Martin take him where he wants to go.


End file.
